


She'll Save Us All, No Matter The Cost

by Whispering_Sumire



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: ALL THE FLUFF, Alive Hale Family, Alpha Peter Hale, Alternate Universe - Time Travel, BAMF Peter, BAMF Stiles, Canon-Typical Violence, Don't worry, Emissary Stiles Stilinski, F/M, Falling In Love, Family, Family Fluff, Feels, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Genderfluid Stiles Stilinski, Girl!Stiles, Good Peter, Hale Family Feels, Light Angst, Magic, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Minor Character Death, Pack, Pack Bonding, Pack Dynamics, Protective Peter, Sassy Peter, Sheriff Stilinski's Name is John, Spells & Enchantments, Stiles is a girl, Stilinski Family Feels, Sweet, The Alpha Pack, Time Travel, Time Travel Fix-It, Torture, Werewolves, female!stiles, it's complicated - Freeform, just the bad guys, mostly - Freeform, only a little bit though
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-24
Updated: 2018-08-03
Packaged: 2019-03-08 19:14:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 16,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13464759
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Whispering_Sumire/pseuds/Whispering_Sumire
Summary: He will never understand where the rest of his family got the idea that humans are always sunshine and rainbows and fragility. He, at least, is smarter than that. Even if this 'damsel in distress' thing isn't a trick, trusting this person with Pack, to be in this house at all, to be healed by his sister and his niece? It's a hard thing to do, to just sit there and watch, to stand vigil until the girl wakes, but he's curious, and he's strong, and he's clever.If she is a danger, at all, he will be prepared.Though he still doesn't understand why Talia doesn't just take her to the hospital.[Or: The one where Stiles goes back in time, and she makes a fuss, and then-- well, life goes on.]





	1. The Girl From the Future, Apparently

**Author's Note:**

> Unbeta'd, but I did my best!!! My sincerest apologies for any and all errors.  
> I hope you enjoy! :)

Derek is flushed, and a little more than embarrassed to be walking home in the rain because he missed his ride to stay late at school, with Kate. Ms Silver. His intensely intelligent, extremely beautiful substitute teacher. And he knows she's older, Gods, he knows, but he can't bring himself to care. In fact, the fact that she knows exactly what she wants, that she takes it with such passion, is probably part of the attraction. Besides, he's been through enough in his life. He survived full moons and supernatural oddities and _Paige_ , he may not be an adult, but he has _lived_.

And he loves her.

He thinks he, maybe, really, really loves her.

His thoughts are interrupted by a thready heart-beat pulsing quietly through the woods, his woods. His love-sick grin transforms into a frown as he follows it because this is Hale property, the Hale Pack's territory, no one should be out here, no one _would_ be. The humans and supernatural alike avoid this place, out of fear, disgust, respect, whatever. And besides, the rain is coming down in thick, heavy waves, and he's pretty sure the only reason he's handling it as well as he is has to do with the fact that Werewolves have insane healing capabilities and extreme body-heat.

This person doesn't smell like a 'were, as he gets closer he smells... it smells like the heat of the sun against soft flower petals, like rivers rushing past mossy stones and the sky, the night sky when the stars sing just right and the moon is so full it makes you feel nothing less than absolutely free. She still smells human, and fragile, and so unique. He's never smelled anything like this before, never this _strong_ , never like a _pull_ , like _Pack_ , for all that she is a complete stranger.

She's lying in the grass, in the mud, the forest around her and the rain pounding harshly against her silvery white skin. Daughter of The Moon, he thinks, though he doesn't really know why; she's just so _pale_ , like milk, cream, moonlight, only interrupted by delicate moles and freckles. Brown curls pool out all around her, tangle with her lithe limbs and her pale blue dress. She's breathing in a shocky, hitched sort of way, her heart-beat fluttering like butterfly wings, and her whole body trembling.

Biting his lip, wondering what the consequences of coming home this late _and_ bringing a near-hypothermic human with him would be, he stalks over to her. It's not like he can just leave her here, he has to do something, and home is closest, even if she looks like a hospital would do her much better. Suddenly, a new smell invades his senses, one that has him lunging for her. Bitter, copper, rich and terrible. Blood. Blood coating her legs and her belly and some of her right shoulder where she's actually properly fucking injured. How did he not see it sooner? Smell it?

Careful of her injuries he picks her up, as delicately as he can, and he starts running, because, really, her heart-beat is slowing down, and how much had she already bled out before he got there? He almost stumbles to a halt when her arms wrap around his neck, and she presses her nose against his jaw almost subconsciously. She takes a deep breath that rattles brokenly around lungs that sound like crumpled scraps of newspaper, which Derek is going to assume is a bad sign.

"Sourwolf," she breathes out, whisper-soft, happy, and she holds on tighter.

Derek runs, he runs as fast as he can, because that's all he can do, and because he has absolutely no idea what to do with what she just said.

* * *

"Derek! What the hell?" Peter seethes as Talia dutifully sets about patching up the random, _strange_ , wounded stray Derek apparently felt it was _necassary_ to rescue.

"I don't know!" he groans back, "She was just, just _lying_ there! Dying, I mean, really _dying_ , I couldn't just-"

"You did the right thing, Derek." Talia says, not looking up from her charge, "No one should be left to die like that, least of all if you have a chance to save them. I'm proud of you, now find Laura to help me with this..."

"Why are you-- just take her to the hospital!" Peter grouses, as Derek runs off with a shy little smile to do as he's told. Peter really doesn't understand this. The girl obviously got herself into whatever led her to be bleeding out in the woods, and it would've been safer for the Pack to leave well enough alone.

Talia flashes a red glare at him, and he sighs. He will never understand where the rest of his family got the idea that humans are always sunshine and rainbows and fragility. He, at least, is smarter than that. Even if this 'damsel in distress' thing isn't a trick, trusting this person with Pack, to be in this house at all, to be healed by his sister and his niece? It's a hard thing to do, to just sit there and watch, to stand vigil until the girl wakes, but he's curious, and he's strong, and he's clever.

If she is a danger, at all, he will be prepared.

Though he still doesn't understand why Talia doesn't just take her to the hospital.

* * *

Long eyelashes flutter open in the middle of the night, and light, honey brown eyes meet his. Willfully. Like she's already expecting a fight, except there's a twinkle of mischief there, one Peter can't understand but kind of wants to. Which makes _no sense_.

He wonders how someone seconds away from death a mere two days ago can be so vibrant, even as their wounds are not yet fully healed, even as they have a fever, just by being awake her whole being fills the room.

"Heya, Creeperwolf," she greets with a wide grin, all teeth, but nothing sharp about it, with her eyes crinkling around the edges, and the soft lilt in her voice.

"Creeperwolf?"

"Werewolf, creeper, y'know," she waves a hand limply around, gesturing at his general person, "if the shoe fits."

"Werewolves don't exist." he manages not to growl, but it's a close thing.

"Mmm," she hums non-committally, "do hunters exist, then, Peter Hale? Because Kate Argent is currently in the middle of making your nephew so damned besotted with her he won't notice when she uses all the sweet-nothings he tells her to burn his family alive."

This time he _does_ growl, and she smirks like she knew he wouldn't last, like she knew him at all.

* * *

Time-travel, the mystery girl tells them, after Peter has gathered Talia and Laura and Arlow and Connor. Talia, because she's the Alpha, Laura, because she's the Alpha in training and old enough, by now, Arlow, because he's Talia's mate, and Connor simply because he's got a good head on his shoulders, for all that he is just an idiotic cousin.

Time-travel and magic and everyone dead. Where, no, _when_ she lived, everyone died. Laura survived the fire to be killed by Peter, Derek to be killed by Dark Faeries (literally ripped to shreds, apparently), Peter to be insane, and then not so insane, and he died _twice_ , killed first by Derek and then by Eichen House.

Her pack, her whole pack, whose Alpha (a true Alpha) was her best friend, was decimated by horror stories one would've had to live through to believe. Even as she spoke of them, of all of this, and even as the glow of her eyes was dimmed by a haunted sort of long-suffering survived terror, she still managed to smile.

She still managed to tell them everything she possibly could.

“Are you insane?” Connor finally asks.

“Probably, but my sanity has nothing to do with this; I'm telling the truth, I can prove it.” She tells him, and then she pulls a little book out of her skirts. She gives it to Peter, not Talia, not Laura, not anyone else. In fact, this whole time, despite the ill she's spoken of him, she's deferred entirely to him. Waiting to answer certain questions until he nodded or spurned her on, only answering so readily when he's the one asking, explaining it all to him more than anyone else.

When he opens the little book to pictures of himself, and Derek much older, the girl looking far more like a boy, he thinks he can kind of understand why. The older-Derek in the pictures looks at her like she's everything he's ever wanted. The older-Peter looks like he's clocked out or he's prepared to murder someone, or, just a few times, he's looking at the girl with the same sort of mischief she had looked at him with earlier, like it's a secret they share. There are others in the pictures too, a Pack, an amalgamation of 'weres and humans and reformed hunters and Banshee.

The further he gets into the book the more the Pack dwindles, less mirth in their eyes, less smiles, just, less.

Small and sad until the very last picture which is just her, sitting alone, sad smile that could never reach her eyes, and bruising around her neck and her wrists that suggests a long fought battle only just survived.

"A picture for every year we lived, for every month we were happy," she explains quietly, "Derek suggested it. All the pictures of you guys he had burned just as you did, I think he thought he'd be the one, the last one left, since we were all so young or," she pauses to glance at Peter, "far too broken. He wanted something, something to hold on to. But, then- then it was just me."

He gives the little book to a very interested Talia to look through.

He believes her.

He thinks he might've believed her as soon as she looked him in the eyes.

"So," he says, after everyone has seen the pictures, and are all looking at the girl, Stiles she said her name was, in shocked astonishment, "what do we do?"

"Kill Kate Argent." she says simply.

Oh, he likes this girl.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More to be explained in the next chapter.  
> Drop some kudos, leave a comment, be magnificent you gorgeous fucking unicorns! Muah!


	2. Gender Studies & Magical Happenings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter finds some things out, and then curiosity kills the cat

"You've got to be _kidding_ me," Peter says incredulously, because here they are, sitting at a bench, watching two little boys play in the sandbox and one of them is _past-Stiles_.

The Hale family is still figuring out how to deal with Kate and Derek, still figuring out how to deal with the fact that every single thing Stiles has said has been true so far. Talia doesn't agree with killing Kate, and no one agrees with the idea of leaving Stiles alone, for various reasons: Talia, because she thinks Stiles might just go off and kill the Huntress on her own; Laura and Connor, because they still don't think she can be trusted; Arlow simply because he thinks that someone so young who's been through so much might do something _stupid_ if left to their own devices.

When told she would be staying in the Hale household, Stiles had shrugged and told them she didn't have anywhere else to go anyway.

When she realized they almost always had someone with her and never left her alone with the children she made a face, and then asked Peter if he would go to the park with her. Like that would solve everything.

And here they are, meeting her past self. Well, watching her past self.

"That's why you looked like a boy in all the pictures," he mumbles.

"It's to prevent a paradox," she explains, in answer to a question he never asked. He never really _needs_ to ask, because she always _knows_. It's like they're on the same wavelength, and as liberating as that is, he's never experienced it with anyone else, and it can get a little disorienting sometimes, how easy it is to just _be_ with her. "If I was exactly the same as him, even with time being in flux, even with me already having changed it, we can't occupy the same space and be the same person, it would tear a hole in the space-time continuum. Even supernatural shenanigans can't save us from that. So, I had to change, in order to cross over to this timeline. In order for it to stay safe."

She says it so clinically, like changing your gender to keep time and space from tearing each other to shreds is just another Sunday, and, hell, maybe it is for her.

"And you're okay with that?" he asks softly, because some things are complicated and sacred like that, and for all that he is a highly functioning psychopath (willing to admit it, too), he _does_ have empathy.

"For some people, it would be... complicated? Difficult? I've always- I mean, I never, I never cared so much, it's much more fluid for me, so I'm not really bothered. If anything it's been a very intriguing experience." She gestures to her belly with a sly grin and says, "Women see more blood in a few months than most men do in lifetimes."

Peter doesn't know whether to be flustered or awed by that, he really doesn't, so he goes with both and just gapes at her dumbly. She throws her head back and laughs, and it's just that, and the whole world lights up because it sounds so brave and rebellious and beautiful, it bubbles up in the air and it makes love with the wind and he's sure he's never heard anything more endearing in his life.

* * *

It was surprising, but the Pack's mostly gotten over it. In fact, it explained some things, that she was magic. Like, raw, pure, unadulterated magic. And she tells them, because Derek asks, even though he doesn't quite forgive her for showing up and destroying what he thought was a grand love affair but turned out to be a lame and terrible ruse, that she was her old Pack's Emissary. 

"Well, we didn't really have a choice. Deaton was dead," Derek shudders involuntarily at that, and even Talia takes a moment to look relatively taken aback, "and my Spark, my magic, it sort of erupted. It was an accident but after I used it to save Scott from a Dragon, I just- I became everything. I have no other way to explain it, there aren't really words for that sort of thing. My consciousness just expanded, and I was in the Earth and the Stars and all of the people, and everything they felt, everything they thought, it was overwhelming, and it went on and on until there wasn't a _me_ anymore. It was too much. So, in order to save me, they anchored me to the Pack, to all of them, until the Pack bonds were so _strong_ , it brought me back."

She smiles, small, heart-wrenching, brutal. But it explains why her scent is so fucking pure that it's already permeated the house, it explains why she seems so strongly like Pack even though she isn't, it explains how she was able to change her gender to defy time and warn them all about a fire that she never wanted to come.

"But you don't have a Pack anymore," Derek says, and it's not derisive, it's not a question, it's not tinged with his usual bitterness toward her. It just is. It's true, they all think for a moment, and all of them wonder what exactly that means for her. She hums non-committally, and then shrugs.

"I wonder if it will kill me," she muses, mostly to herself, and then she's cleaning the house again, because she's too high-strung to stay still and not so proud as to avoid chores.

Peter just stares at her, chills seeping deep down into his bones, and wonders how she'd managed to make him, within only a week of being awake and alive and _near_ , care enough that the thought of her dead makes him feel hallowed out and shaky and raw.

He doesn't even care that much about _Talia_ , his big sister, his _Alpha_

* * *

Stiles was vibrant enough that the house echoed with her humor and vibrated with her bare soul, but despite the gleam in her eye, the smile on her lips, and the rebellion in her voice, Peter was... worried.

He did not enjoy the feeling.

Dying implied pain. As far as he knew. And as most things seem to do with him, worry gave way to curiosity.

He decides to do something about it one day, while walking with her in the park, as they did often now, though he knew there was more to it than that. That it wasn't an innocent walk in the park, and that choosing him as her guide was more calculated than fond. He still didn't know what, exactly, she was planning, but it was amicable company nonetheless.

They played, snarking and manipulating each other in ways other people might've distantly thought of as mild psychological torture, but it worked for them. It was fun. Every once in awhile they'd delve into serious subjects, but they'd always drift away quickly, like Stiles was wary of getting too close, or maybe like she understood how wary _he_ was of getting too close.

Physically speaking, though, they were close enough to touch, most days. Walking side by side, shoulders brushing, strands of her hair- which was long enough to almost drift along the ground around their feet- skating against his arm, his fingers, tickle-soft and fleeting.

One touch, that would be all it took, to see if she was in pain. So, he allows his hand drift to her arm, and before she has a chance to pull back, lets his fingers graze the soft skin, the warmth of her, as his wolf reaches out.

_Pain, pain, everything is pain, and agony, and oh, God, Gods, anything, someone help. Let it stop, make it stop, please, please make it stop, it hurts, it hurts so fucking much. Die, let me die, just to make it stop. Kill me, please kill me, please make it end. It hurts, it's killing me anyway. Help. Help me. Agony. Hurts._

_It hurts._

_Kill me._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know it's relatively early to be posting a new chapter, but I couldn't help myself. Also, sorry about the cliff-hanger!!! It gets better I promise! I love you guys, drop some kudos, some comments, you guys make my life ten times better, seriously. Thanks for reading!  
> Muah!


	3. How To Save A Life (and maybe be an Alpha, too)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where Stiles hashes out plans, and has little to no self-preservation to speak of.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys have been so fucking _wonderful_ , I don't even know what to say, I hope this chapter doesn't let you down.  
> As always, no Beta, please forgive my mistakes, I am only human.  
> I hope you enjoy! Muah!!

The first sounds he hears are like gentle rain, the first few drizzling drops all around him, except that can't be right because he doesn't feel rain on his skin, all he can feel are nimble fingers lightly scratching at his scalp, and he can't smell rain, he can only smell fields of flowers and mossy rivers and the full moon and a night sky full of stars. He didn't even know something _could_ smell like the full moon until he met her. Oh, right, he was at the park.

When he opens his eyes he realizes he still is, in a much more secluded part of it, anyway, and the sound he's hearing is the wind playing the fallen leaves against the stone path that leads to the rusted bench they're both sitting on. Well, she's sitting, with his head in her lap, and his legs hanging uncomfortably off of the end of the seat. Her hand is still carding through his hair, and he thinks she's humming something, her eyes watching the area around them, scanning every access point like she's ready to pick him up and run at the first sight of danger.

He wonders how he should feel about her being protective of him, but the thought is stunted when his groggy consciousness extends to the increasing stab of pain in his head. He groans, and hates himself when he realizes his body is trembling, he doesn't even know when the fuck that started.

"You're an idiot," she says in an oddly soothing tone, like she's shushing a child instead of insulting a werewolf. That's so fucking like her he laughs, and then groans again, because, _ow!_

"So are you," he grits out through his teeth, because really, how does she even _live_ when she's in so much pain, and for her it's constant. All he had to do to stop feeling it was let go; his wolf only took a _sip_ , draining a centimeter of her pain to satisfy his curiosity, and with just that, he passed out.

"Debatable," she smirks, and when he glares at her she only sighs and shakes her head. They stay like that for awhile, whether it's because accepting her quiet comfort means being _close_ \- which is exactly where he wants to be right now, near her- or because her hand running through his hair is actually pleasant despite the migraine, or because his worrying has turned into a mild dread that someone in so much pain couldn't _possibly_ live for very much longer, he really doesn't know. Neither does he know why she's letting it happen when she knows he's awake and they could probably leave now, or at least _move_. Maybe it's because he's still trembling. Or maybe it's because she's in agony and in all likelihood fucking delirious.

Constant fucking _agony_ , Jesus.

"I have a plan," comes her unexpected, solemn declaration, and suddenly he's tense and completely focused on her. That tone of voice is not one he's ever heard on her lips before. Like she's a soldier, like she's going to make the sacrifice play or she's going to make someone else do it for her, like she's seen too much death and she knows whatever comes next will only lead to more of it, like she has no fucking choice, like she's desperate because everything is too important and she'd sacrifice herself for all of it except she's pretty sure she'll endure anyway. Four words. He thinks he might hate them, hate the way they make her sound, hate the way she sets her jaw with fierce determination and guilt and a sudden lack of self-preservation to top it all off, hate the way her honey-amber eyes go hollow and dark.

"I'll need you, for all of it, for every second, I'll need you the whole way. It's the only thing I can think of, though, to save your family, to save us all. Because Talia won't kill her."

Neither of them needs to point out who the 'her' is. They both know.

And suddenly it's clicking, that Stiles made sure it was just them on these walks, that she let him be as wary as he wanted, that she let herself be as vulnerable as she could.

"No, she won't," he agrees, then, because he has to ask, "you let me take some of your pain, didn't you? You knew I'd do it, and you let me."

"Yes," she says, small smile playing at her lips, and pride in her eyes, like she knew he'd find out, like she's glad he did.

"So I'd be more invested," he proposes, he thinks he's right, but he isn't quite sure yet.

"Yes."

"How did you know it would work?"

"If I told you this plan would end my pain, would you help me?"

"Would it end with you alive or dead?" He asks her, he doesn't care he's being manipulated, he'd do the same in her position, if anything he's a little star-struck that she managed to do it so well he didn't notice until now.

"Do you want me to live through this?" She wonders, something between amused and content, like it all depends on him, like she doesn't care either way.

"Yes," he growls instantly, more rough and raw and honest than he'd meant, but he doesn't care. He wants her _alive_.

"It'll end with me alive," she assures him with a breathless little laugh, one that he doesn't entirely understand, one he wants- in a kind of pathetically desperate way- to hear again.

"Then I'll help you," he decides, no hesitation.

He kind of wonders where this loyalty to her came from, how it came so fucking fast, why he isn't even slightly disturbed by it when the only other person he really cares this much about is himself.

Her plan, as she speaks of it, brings their walks in the park into a whole new light. She had needed to know if the Hales would let her be alone with him, for extended periods of time, outside. She knew he wouldn't balk at the idea of killing Kate Argent to protect his Pack ("And nothing short of killing her will stop her."), and she knew that, even if he wasn't the same crazy power-hungry rogue he was before, being an Alpha wouldn't be something he'd shy away from. Apparently, there was an Alpha Pack, started by Deucalion, no less. ("I figure it's better to deal with this problem, now, rather than later.") It hasn't been completed in this time, yet, and only consists of two, though they're trying to convince a third to kill their entire Pack in order to become the type of Alpha that could live in the awkward hierarchy of a new Pack consisting of _only_ Alphas. If Peter kills the two, the Alpha Pack will never get the chance to grow and fester, Kali will never maul her Emissary, and Peter will be an Alpha.

Then, they can kill Kate, ("Why do I need to be an Alpha to kill her?" "Because I am _not_ taking any chances, not with your life, not with the Hale Pack, not with the future. She needs to die and _stay dead_.") rip her to shreds, burn various parts of her ceremoniously and bury the rest with the exception of a few bits being tossed into the sea. ("Overkill?" "No, no it's really not.") After, Peter can make his own Pack, wherever and however he pleases, and if he allows, she will become their Emissary.

She will have a Pack to Anchor to again, and she will live.

"It really is _completely_ up to me, isn't it?"

"Yes," She answers with so much sincerity in her voice that it kind of pisses him off.

"Why?"

"I have seen my Pack die, my friends, my family, my lover, I watched every last one die. That pain is much more present and horrible than anything my Magic could do to me. I've lost everything, and now I don't even have my Time, or a place to call Home. And I _still_ want everyone safe, I do, just- I can't do this on my own, Peter, I won't. If you did not help me in this, I would've seen the threats to your Pack, to Beacon Hills, dead, _alone_ , it would've been hard but I'd've done it, and then- then I would've let my magic take me," Peters growl rumbles deep inside of his throat, unbidden, starling another small, airy chuckle out of her, "but you'll help me. I never thought you would, or at least, even if you did, me being your Emissary, I really never-" she laughs again, a little bit of awe, a little bit of disbelief clouding the sound, and shakes her head as if trying to clear it.

"Thank you," she breaths after a moments pause, the word so quiet, so reverent, and he's not about to miss the hope or the relief shining in her eyes as she says it, either. His heart stutters, clenches, and his cheeks start to burn, she was really going to let herself die, she was already ignoring so much pain, and she would've let that torture and kill her, and she would've done it all alone and for _them_. To save every last one of them. She wasn't even asking for anything in return, and she never expected it, never would.

She didn't expect anyone to save her from this.

She had already accepted it.

She thought he'd refute her everything and let her die and she'd already accepted that fate.

How could she be so selfless? So stupid, so self-sacrificing, so fucking beautiful, and, goddamn it, wasn't she meant to be clever?

Before he put any conscious thought into it, he was surging forward and wrapping his arms around her, pulling her into a bruising hug. She let out a surprised little huff against his collarbone before she was hugging him back, tucking her head securely under his chin. Then, as if she couldn't really help herself either, she was clinging to him like he was all she had left to hold on to.

"I'm not letting you _die_ , you idiot," he murmurs into her hair, and a heart-breaking sound comes out of her at that.

"Okay," she finally sighs, the sound of it muffled against him. She seems so small and vulnerable in this moment, so fragile, and all he can do is hold her tighter, closer to him. He wonders, now, as they're both trembling and the weight of this hug becomes crushing and warm and new, like they fit together, like being like this is more natural than being apart, and it's so terrifying and _safe_ all at once, if he'll ever be able to let go.

"Okay."


	4. Cackling Hyenas In The Face Of Battle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where Peter, in the middle of a fight, no less, discovers a few things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I originally wanted to name this chapter: Cackling In The Face Of Battle Isn't Healthy, But Whatever; except I thought that was too long and not exactly right, so it is what it is now instead.  
> I have no Beta, waaaahhh, please excuse the mistakes (or point them out if it really bugs you, seriously, I'm down to fix my fuck-ups) because, as always, I am only human and I really, really did try my best, swear down.  
> I hope you enjoy! I love you! Thanks for reading, you guys are so~ the best!

He knew, in the vague objective way one sees the aesthetic of a very dear very old friend (which is another extraordinary thing, considering this friendship is only months old yet), that Stiles was beautiful.

But this was different.

She wielded magic like she was a Goddess and fury like an avenging Angel, her lips part on a vicious, victorious war cry and it is more than stunning. It's gorgeous. It's provocative and breathtaking and immaculate.

It's attractive in a way he really can't concentrate on right now because they've got three Alphas, four Betas (with a few more on the way, if the howls in the woods are anything to go by), and an aggravated, young, clever but not too powerful Emissary on their hands.

Stiles moves around their little battlefield (which is, oddly enough, a field outside of a cemetery, he'd laugh at the irony if he weren't dodging toe-claws at the moment) with the grace of a dancer, whirls fire from her fingertips, calls ravens with a shrill little cry to the heavens, laughs with blood-soaked teeth after she bites clear through one of the Betas wrists, swings punches like a boxer, slips down like a cat, swipes their feet out from under them, kisses their temple when they're down like a mother might do, except black veins creep away from the contact and suddenly the Beta is dead and she's laughing again in delight, moving on to her next victim.

She's all sweat-slick skin and mirth and sarcastic barbs, because even in this circumstance keeping her mouth shut is an impossibility, hair curling around the wind, chest heaving with exertion, dress swirling around her as if it's dancing _with_ her.

God, she's laughing again.

"Stiles, _shut up_." he says, because she's being too fucking distracting, his heart is beating too hard and he _knows_ he smells like the strong spice-musk of arousal and goddamn if his breath doesn't hitch every time he catches a glimpse of long silvery legs against blood-red silk skirts, every time he sees whiskey tresses swirling, every time he sees mischief honey irises and full pink lips smirking at him like she's telling him that she knows they're going to win, like she's telling him she's more than proud of this, like she's joyful that they're doing it _together_.

"No," she calls back simply after making Ennis' hand, which was reaching out for him from a blind spot, spontaneously combust, and there's a giggle bubbling up from her throat already, except now he's right there with her.

He likes to think the Alphas started to get freaked out by the insane snickering guffawing duo- that had begun pranking and snarking more than fighting during hour two- around the time all of the Betas were dead or otherwise incapacitated, Peter had killed Ennis, and Stiles had made all of the headstones start wailing like pitiful children (she has an oddly morbid sense of humour sometimes), but he really doesn't know. All he _does_ know, is that around hour three, when his throat was getting scratchy and his stomach was aching from all the mirth and his cheeks felt like they might just be falling off from all the smiling, their enemies started opting to run instead of fight and were shooting them horrified looks as if they'd suddenly realized they were dealing with frankly disturbed individuals.

Needless to say, at that point, they had the upper hand, and they did _not_ let it go to waste.

Only a few Betas, Kali, and Julia (her Emissary) were spared with a severe warning from Stiles; "I know how you felt about Ennis, Kali, I also know what he and Deucalian were proposing to you. Be thankful you didn't lose your Pack or your Emissary to their arrogance and _leave it be_. Deucalian and Ennis massacred their Packs, by anyone's standards, 'were, human, hunter, or otherwise, what they did was unforgivable; I'm sorry for your loss, but we did what we had to do to stop the madness and bring them both to justice, do you understand? So let this be the end of it, let the death stop here, and go _home_."

Peter dimly wonders, as Kali and her whole Pack looks at them half-wary, half-awe-struck, and just a little chastened, if this is how legends are born. He flashes blood red irises at them once before they leave, just to underline the point, and is very satisfied when the whole group flinches as one. Stiles snorts at him, taps him on the shoulder twice and says: "Time t' go, then, Creeperwolf."

He smiles at her as they walk away, tries not to pay attention to the spaghetti strap slipping off of her shoulder, the sweat and blood mingling at the hollow of her throat, the way she smells victorious and pleased, like the moon and war and something ancient he can't put a finger on; he tries to ignore the way her lips soften into a smile that's honest and sweet and just for him, with thick burnt brown honey melting as her eyes cascade over him, and, oh, she's checking for injuries. Her grin gets wider when she realizes he's in better shape than he's ever been and her smell gets impossibly stronger.

He thinks he kind of wants to kiss those blood-soaked, rebellious, willfully sarcastic lips, taste the battle and the magic and the joy on her tongue.

He has no idea what to do about that.

"We won," he says instead, and if he's a little breathless, a little flushed, she doesn't seem to notice.

"Did you ever have any doubt we would, Peter? My, my, Creeperwolf, I never thought you anything short of arrogant! Who knew, even you suffer from nerves! I'll have to go to the newspapers with this, you know, can't let you live it down."

"Oh, shut up."

"Never."

* * *

Talia would be very, extremely opposed to killing Kate, they both know this, and the battle and subsequent shower (at a local Gym that they half-snuck into, which now has a few emptied lockers and some probably not so happy people looking for their missing clothes) took up what Stiles calls their allotted 'park/play time'. Apparently, if they're gone too long the Hale Pack sends someone to call after them, under the guise of bringing them home for dinner; it's no surprise, really, Talia turns a blind eye to some of his tendencies, but not _all_ of them, it's a wonder she lets him out alone with her supposedly suspicious and murderous time-travelling magically potent charge at all.

So, killing Kate comes tomorrow, which was actually a part of Stiles' plan, and she really must trust him a lot for this, because despite all of her teasing earlier, she's hoping he'll do his best not to shift, not to assert any dominance despite the new instincts screaming in the back of his mind, not to flash red eyes in irritation, and to hide and mute his wolf (which is now all Alpha) in the presence of his family, his Pack.

Well, his _old_ Pack.

The thing about it is, it's not any kind of order or expectation, just advice, hope, and the flash of a smile. Trust that he gave his word and he'll keep it. He's never had _anything_ like that before.

But that's exactly who she is, who she always will be.

His Emissary.

Hiding being an Alpha for one night, for her, and to keep his old Pack, his family, from burning? To save everyone like Stiles so desperately hopes they will be able to? To accomplish the thing she'd been damn near willing to _die_ for?

It's _more_ than fucking worth it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Drop some kudos, leave a comment, let me know if you liked it or how you felt at all, and guys!!! You actually read it! Oh my goodness, thank you so much, you wonderful people!!! Muah!
> 
> New chapters shall come soon, I promise, let's only hope it doesn't take Peter _too_ long to realize _exactly_ what he's feeling for Stiles ;)


	5. The Calm Before The Storm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where Kate and Chris go about their days, and Stiles and Peter have one last errand to run.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry that this chapter is late, and equally sorry that it may be a little choppy and listless; I've been trying to push through some irl things and some writers block, but I wanted you guys to have a little something so I'm posting and getting my ass in gear, I swear.  
> As always, I have no beta, so another apology for any and all mistakes!

Very, very unfortunately for them, after Derek was told to bid adieu to 'Ms. Silver', she and her father became mildly suspicious as to how much the Hales knew. Were they telling their minor son to escape the clutches of manipulation and statutory rape from an older woman? Or were they telling their wolf-child to be wary of hunters and to not stray so far from Pack?

Kate, herself, wasn't about to take any chances, she had been trained to cleanse this town of 'weres and had been planning the Hales demise for far too long to be interrupted or hindered now. There were too many unknown factors surrounding the local Pack, though, and she had needed that in, so now that it seems, for the most part, lost, she needs another.

If not an unwitting spy, perhaps a willing one? There were humans in this Pack, she knew, surely one of _them_ is not so proud or happy with their disgusting feral ancestry so as to protect it? If nothing else, though she hates the idea of getting her hands dirty this soon, there's always torture.

Gerard has taken the day to go out with some travelling hunters to scope out a field near an old graveyard, there were accounts of wolves howling near the site, and the other hunters are speculating about a battle, but most of the evidence of such seems to have been eviscerated. Whether it was a territorial dispute or rogue hunters no one really knows, but her father has faith he will be able to find out- he's much more perceptive than most of their colleagues, anyway.

He's especially interested because he thinks there were no less than two Alphas present in the battle, and while Kate herself is curious, she has her orders, and she supposes she should be grateful that her father trusts her enough to allow her to continue this mission on her own, despite her previous failures with Derek.

She will not be disappointing him again, she is sure of it.

"Kate?" Chris' voice calls her out of her reverie, and she turns from the door to raise an eyebrow at him in obvious question, "Where are you going?"

"Out." she returns curtly. Her brother is far too sweet for his own good, always a mamas boy, always a diligent soldier who is loyal only to the code. He doesn't understand at all, that these are monsters, that if they do not kill them now they'll turn sooner or later.

They're disgusting undignified creatures, they don't deserve the honor of patience, and they will get nothing but death from her.

* * *

To pay his sister any mind, Chris thinks, would be to invite a War-General to his door and then punch him in the face. Kate's brash like that, if she wants you in her business, she'll tell you, if she doesn't, well... He's sure sometimes that the legend of Athena cutting a man to shreds for seeing her bathe is an ominous prophecy for what Kate would do if anyone got even an inch too nosy for her liking.

So he leaves it.

He thinks about what his wife told him the other day, about how she doesn't want Allison to be like that, hard and dark and sharp. Haunted around the edges, jaded and morose and violent; how she wants to teach her to protect herself but she wants their daughter to retain her innocence for as long as possible.

And he thinks about the way Kate looks sometimes and he tries to imagine his baby girl with the eyes of a killer.

He'd give up anything to keep her from that fate.

* * *

They were walking in the middle of the preserve somewhere looking for the Nemeton, to purify it, Stiles had said. It was the last thing they needed to do before they went after Kate. Stiles, apparently, still connected to it after it had sent her back in time, knew exactly where it was.

Peter himself was just itching to get his claws into the woman trying to burn his family, who, in another life, _had_.

"My kill count is higher than yours," Stiles mused as she balanced on a precarious rock before jumping down from it and sliding flailingly down the small hill they were on. Peter raised an amused eyebrow.

"How is it that you take to battle with all the grace of a gazelle, but you walk like you're trying to earn the award for world's clumsiest human?" He asked her, shaking his head, trying not to chuckle as she just flailed some more.

"It's weird, you know," she said, ignoring him almost entirely, only the faintest blush painting her cheeks gave her away, "because before you were the vicious murder-y one who had enough red in your ledger, enough kills under your belt, that we always went to you when-"

"When you needed help hiding a body?"

"When a body turned up," she corrected, "you were like our Loki; we knew you were amoral, a psychopath and a murderer, but you were family so we kept you anyway."

"Huh."

"Only now, I'm the one goading _you_ into killing things, and _I'm_ probably more of a murderer than you will ever be," she stopped then, and turned to look at him. Her eyes caught the sunlight just right, and for a singular ethereal moment looked as red as his, looked like wine and blood and fire and all those secrets she holds and wants to keep safe. She smiled at him like he was precious, and new, and sacred, like he was a gift she wanted to cherish but was terrified she might break, like _he_ was the fragile one.

"You're so _young_ Peter." She breathed, reaching out to touch his cheek in an oddly gentle way, and in that moment, although for the life of him he didn't know why, he desperately wanted to cry.

As quick as the moment had come, it passed, and she was turning on her heel to resume their hike as if nothing had happened at all.

The woods settled around them, noises blurring into white noise, and they were both quiet, as if to take it all in. There was an easy camaraderie, a tense sort of attraction, and a muted anticipation swirling in Peter's gut. He took a deep breath, and then another, and reminded himself what was at stake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Serious soul kisses to the lot of you for dealing with me, you're all awesome. New chapters will be coming soon, and *winces* will be much better, I swear.  
> I mean it when I say this is the calm before the storm, shit's goin' down from here- plot will be happening!


	6. Gunpowder & Improv

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When even the best-laid plans fail.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry for the wait, guys, but here it is!  
> I have no Beta, any and all mistakes are mine, but I do my best, I swear!!!  
> Also, your comments have been my life-blood, seriously, guys, you're awesome, thank you so much.

Derek didn't like Stiles, he didn't like her at all. She didn't just smell like Pack, she acted like Pack, she flirted with Peter and, despite the fact that he wasn't an Alpha, she acted like she was his Beta. It was so subtle, he didn't even know if anyone had noticed, he honestly didn't even think she did it on purpose. Sometimes she'd just, for no reason, bare her throat in submission, preen a little when he gave her even the slightest praise, smile at him like he'd hung the stars in the sky, like he was an old friend and she knew all of his secrets.

But, the thing of it was, _no one_ knew all of Peter's secrets, not even Mom.

And more than that, she seemed to know all of Derek's too, considering she was the one who told his parents about his relationship with Ms Silver; a relationship he had had to end because of _her_!

She was cunning, and terrible, and he was sure she was manipulating his Uncle. No one else was paying it any mind, so it was up to him, he knew, to put a stop to it.

Once he'd opened Uncle Peter's eyes maybe everyone else would finally give into their obvious suspicions and they could all be rid of her for good.

* * *

Stiles was no stranger to amorality. She supposes, maybe once, when she was very young, before her mother died, she was different. But after? After she had clung to Scott. Because Scott was inherently good, he was honourable, he had a moral compass so strong it drew her in and helped lead them all.

Still, Beacon Hills was and always would be a beacon for supernatural creatures, good and bad, and Scott had to adjust, their friendship had to adjust, because he'd always resent her, a little, for killing and cunning and the kind of clever that negated ethics; because she'd always protect her Pack (her family, her friends, _Scott_ ), even if it meant damning the world, even if it meant a massacre, even if it meant becoming a monster herself.

She had no illusions about who she was, and after awhile, any illusions he had disappeared. She thinks, _hopes_ , that when he realized most (read: all) of the things she ever did, all of the blood on her hands, she did for them- that he forgave her. He seemed to, for the most part, anyway.

And yet, no matter what they did, the supernatural war was waged and raged across their souls and one by one they fell. They lost.

She lost them all.

So, she went back in time.

It seemed to be the only sensible thing to do.

The _Hales_ were meant to protect this land, not a ragtag team of broken adults and breaking teens.

She never thought anyone would help her, she had fully expected to fight these battles on her own and then lay down to die knowing that Beacon Hills was safe, this timeline was safe, and she had done well enough- could rest now.

Then, like always, there was _Peter_ , and, like always, she improvised.

It was so new, and odd, and magically delightful to see him with clear, sane eyes. Blue, sharp, ice, piercing, clever and so impossibly kind. Trusting. A mouth that smiled easily. Not tense. Easy. Okay.

He was okay, really, really okay. And fucking alive. And _happy_. And _young_. So very, very young compared to the Peter she knew. Vibrant.

And she'd die for him in a heartbeat, now, because he's her Alpha, because he wants to save her life, because he wants to give her a Pack so she'll stop being in pain, because he listens, respects her, because sometimes when he looks at her the ice in his eyes melts and she feels alive again- like she wants to _live_ again.

So, when they'd followed Kate, and ambushed, and planned for everything, and done their damndest, but she still managed to corner Peter with some sort of Alpha attuned weapon? When there was nothing but blonde hair and red lips and teeth and a gun aimed at the chest of someone she loved? All she could think was she was done.

She was done losing people.

She was done surviving as nothing but an empty shell.

And it was enough now, it really was.

She jumped with her magic, fisted her hands in Peter's shirt, saw his mouth soften in surprise, his eyes fill with horror, and she'd pushed. The sound of a gunshot rang through the alley, followed by throaty laughter, her own whimpered giggle, and a roar that shook her world. Her name shouldn't sound like that. Like a wolf mourning, like glass breaking, like it was crumbling into insanity and pain and nightmares.

Her knees hit the asphalt, scraped, hands trembled against old, cracked blacktop. Blood trickled, breath caught, pain narrowed everything down to her Alpha, screaming, roaring, needing. He wouldn't leave her, she knew, and she wondered why that was such a surprise, that he might continue to fight in her name.

But he couldn't. He was injured too, and they needed to regroup somehow.

So, with one last deep breath that made her body scream, she cast her magic to the boy she knew had followed them, the boy who had once been the man who was love of her life, and she gave him purpose.

 _Take your Uncle and run, Derek,_ she whispered into his mind, _take him and run!_

* * *

Derek had followed them, watched them enter a root cellar, watched them talk like they were so familiar, like they were Pack. And then they were moving, stalking through the Preserve, Peter finding a scent, both of them preparing for battle.

And there was Kate, his Kate, Ms Silver.

Oh, he hated Stiles more than ever in that moment, because he still didn't believe her accusations against his lover, because he knew she'd tricked Peter into this hunt. But what could he do, except follow and wait?

Stiles and Peter had cornered her in an alley, and they had fought, and he's pretty sure his heart broke when he saw Kate fight back.

Kate's eyes were suddenly psychosis and murder and putrid cruelty. It was so painful to see the mask slip, it filled him with horror as he witnessed, heard, smelled.

She _hated_ werewolves. Stiles had been telling the truth. She wanted them all to burn, they _disgusted_ her. And he felt like he couldn't _breathe_ ; he had loved her, so intensely, with such focus and need and he hadn't known who she was, not at all, not really.

It felt like dying.

Then the gunshot rang in the air and the girl who smelled like Pack was kneeling in the place where Peter had stood just moments before, the iron of her blood and the petrichor-sweet of wolfsbane mingling with moon-river-moss, and for a moment he was struck by the sound that escaped her in the still-quiet time-stutter that followed the resounding death knoll of the wound she'd just endured.

Whisper-soft laughter, relief, happiness, joy-- and he doesn't understand why she can sound like that until he hears Peter roar.

Because she saved his life.

She doesn't care what's happened to her because it happened to _her_.

And then her voice is in his head, strong, steady, sure, willful magic full of honey-whiskey-cinnamon-brine. And he shakes himself from heartbreak to do what she demands of him, because he wants Peter safe as much as she does. So he grabs his Uncle and runs with him- ignores the eyes- vermilion, _Alpha_ \- and the threats and the pleas and the broken way he's chanting her name like leaving her will be the worst agony he will ever be forced to suffer.

In the back of his mind, like starlight twinkling in water, like leaves rustling, he hears her thanking him, laughing, proud.

Gods he hates himself for how he thought of her.

 _Please don't die._ he prays as they run, and run, and run.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More chapters soon!  
> Poor, poor Stiles; poor Peter... Don't worry, I promise I'll kiss it better soon-ish ;)


	7. She Who Burns Dragons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where Stiles is maybe in a bit of a bad spot, but also has magic

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soooooo, I don't think this chapter would elevate this from mature to explicit, because it's not very gory at all and I'm mostly vague, but, hummmm  
> Anyway, if you want to avoid the torture, there's a general chapter summary at the end.  
> Also, I'm so sorry, Kate's a terrible person, I couldn't have prevented this if I tried.
> 
> Also, also, I have no Beta, so many sorries for the fuck ups, they're all mine.

"Amorality," she's saying, because it was where her train of thought was before, or it's close enough at any rate, before the tan skinned, blonde haired shark shot her-- shot her and then wrapped up her wound (which wasn't deadly, she was shorter than Peter, and she wasn't a werewolf, she was a witch- couldn't technically be an Emmisarry until she had a Pack, a bigger Pack, anyway- wolfsbane didn't hinder her ability to heal, if anything, it helped. Wolfsbane and blood and metal, three ingredients to put to use along with the spells she's long since memorized and the spark- _her_ spark- that constantly screamed and writhed and begged for release) so that she could unceremoniously throw her into the trunk of her car and drive her to an undisclosed location.

Kate _fucking_ Argent, ladies and gentleman and varied unicorn hippogriffs.

At least, that's what Stiles _thinks_ happened.

She was passed out for most of it.

What? there was a bullet in her shoulder and her magic was working overtime-- exhaustion was par for the course.

Not to mention how the bullet was still in there, which might've been helpful for the healing spells she was silently weaving, but made having her wrists shackled up above her head much more painful than it needed to be. At least her feet found solid purchase on the cold, damp, rusted floor beneath them, so she wasn't in danger of slow, presumably awful suffocation. Then again, Kate was the one in control of the chains, had already demonstrated that she could easily hoist Stiles up high by the manacles digging into her wrists until she was suspended claustrophobically close to the high ceiling, swinging perilously, weightlessly. 

Talk about nausea inducing.

Nevertheless, where was she, oh! That's right: "I think that's why we click," she explains helpfully, ignoring the rasp in her voice that comes, no doubt, from all the screaming she's been doing, "because our ethics revolve around the people we love instead of what society deems good and bad? In another life, we could've been mobsters, mafia, a gang or something. I'm sure we would've been great at it- Peter with the math and the guns, me with the research and the people, seriously, it'd make a great-" her babbling gets very _rudely_ cut off by Kate whacking her in the gut with a wrench, she's pretty sure that ugly crack was a rib.

She's not ashamed of the shriek or the grunt- she's being tortured, she's always being tortured one way or another (people dead all around her, magic eating her alive, seeing her father and her mother- alive, but strangers now, Gerard, Alpha Pack, Kate, pain, pain, pain), she's used to it, knows that holding back makes sense sometimes (Pack, loved ones, don't want anyone to worry, it's okay, it'll be fine), and sometimes it doesn't (Kate smiles, enjoys, gets off on every whimper, scream, rasped breath; whatever, let her have her fun).

So she lets herself feel it, because that's all she can really do right now. Saliva bubbles, blood foams, swirls in her mouth, makes her throat constrict, bile rise.

Kate's close, laughing, breathless, flushed with arousal because she is such a fucking _sadist_.

Stiles spits at her with contempt and rebellion and watches the reddish blob slide down her cheek, smirks when Kate wipes it away disgusted, screams again when she's punished with another blow.

From somewhere under, deep and dark and muddled and nowhere near the surface, because she's drowning, she must be, she hears Kate asking her about the Hale territory, about their secrets.

She calls her a paedophile with all the regality of a feral cat.

Another blow, and then she's dragged under, and it's dark.

It's finally dark.

Can she rest now?

 _No,_ she remembers, feverish, terrible, uncorruptable, _there are still people left to save._

_There's still Peter._

And the hope she feels when she thinks of her Alpha wells up and blooms inside her, is unprecedented and terrifying and makes her want to open her eyes again.

Because, she thinks, he'd be terribly disappointed in her if they got this far only for her to die _now_.

* * *

"I never was very good at white magic," she mutters to herself disapprovingly minutes, _hours_ , whatever- later, just later- when she looks at her shoulder which has decided to downright _refuse_ any more healing endeavours.

Kate looks horrified.

"You're a _witch_?" She asks, face pinched like the word is dreadful, like she'd just been made to suck on a lemon whilst cutting a dozen onions, "Is _that_ why you've thrown your lot in with those mutts?!"

Is she seriously affronted by this, really? How much worse would it be if she realized Stiles had Emissary potential? Ugh.

"Oh, come on! You took my bag of magical ingredients and runes, every time you hit me the lights flicker, you can't have _missed_ it!" She growls incredulously, kicking her legs for effect because waving her arms isn't an option, which, yeah, in hindsight, not the greatest idea.

She plants her feet firmly on the ground and stubbornly fights the nausea, the spots of darkness encroaching on her vision. She gives herself a moment to let her body, just, be, be broken and in physical pain, be thrumming with a fervent magical energy that scrapes and bucks against her skin, be jumpy and twitchy because this is _torture_ , actual torture she's going through.

And then she ruthlessly suppresses it all, takes terror and agony and hope, tucks it away, becomes something else without it. Because this isn't the first time she's been through something like this, and, yeah, compartmentalization is a thing and she's probably taken it to pretty unhealthy levels considering she uses her magic to help her do it, but, well. Worry about that later, right now? Surviving is the first priority.

Some distant part of her thinks that Adderall might help this situation, but she ignores it, she has better things to do.

Magic is all about belief, her magic especially, once you get past the spells and the training and the crutches that keep her anchored and her power manageable. Because her spark is _raw_ , enormous, likely to kill her if she isn't giving more than half of it to a whole Pack on a daily basis.

She swallows. She breathes. Her eyes have been closed for awhile now, and she's pretty sure Kate's scoffing something about how she's too easy to pass out, annoyed, that's good.

Believe, believe, believe- this might seriously fuck her up, she hasn't used her power like this since. Well, since everyone died.- Believe, believe, believe- she'd killed the Nemeton in order to go back in time, hadn't even regretted it, considering, and it's perfectly alive and well, now, so...- Believe, believe, believe.

Kate wanted the Hales to burn?

Well, Stiles had made a _Dragon_ burn.

* * *

Kate's a little more than worried when her hostage goes completely, utterly, unnaturally still. If there's anything she's learned about Stiles in the past few hours, it's that stillness is the complete antithesis of what she is. She is always, _always_ fidgeting or flailing or twitching, or god, _talking_ \- Stiles _never_ stops talking.

So the quiet, the still, the aura of nothing?

Kate sighs, mildly annoyed that maybe her only source of information has just died on her; it's with this in mind that she walks toward what she assumes is a corpse. So, she's appropriately alarmed when the girl opens her eyes, which are gleaming a pure, unnatural, poisonous violet and howls.

The sound of it shakes the earth beneath them, rattles and echoes sickeningly inside of Kate's bones, turns into a scream over time, because it's. _Not_. _Stopping_.

Louder, and louder, immobilizing and daunting and Kate has her hands over her ears, can't tell if she's shaking or the world is or if it's both, can't hear her own heartbeat over the sound that's caging her in. The deafening vibration just keeps picking up, speeding, getting hotter, and the sound will kill her first, she thinks, desperately, as her skin starts getting singed by the force in the air.

The atoms, she realizes, with horrifying clarity that makes her want to scream herself, only she's worried that'll just add to it, tip the scales. The scream is making the atoms vibrate until they're just- until it's fire, she's forcing air into fire with sound and Kate can't stop herself from screaming now, couldn't if she tried.

This is _scary_ , her skin is smoking, her hair is becoming tinder for hungry, eager little flames, and she wants her father.

She wants him like an ache and a hole in her heart that's never quite been filled, and she wonders, as she runs out of breath, because the oxygen is being lost to the pandemonium, if maybe that ache hurts worse than her skin sizzling off, her hair becoming char, her brain melting under the weight of the sound.

And as her heart stutters to it's inevitable stop, the hopeless, pitiful, childish word she breathes, whimpers, curses (because, surely, it wasn't just the werewolves who were horrible, was it? Not when she was dying like this at the hands of a witch) is: "Daddy."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Summary: Stiles babbles whilst she is being held and tortured by Kate for information, also managing to keep herself from bleeding out via magic and Kate patching her up to keep her alive for aforementioned torture. Stiles is generally BAMF through it all, but really kicks it up when she puts away all of her fears and pain, calls up her spark, screams until everything is on fire, and by the end, Kate is very, very dead. Kate angsts a bit while dying. The cliffhanger is: What happened to Stiles? And where tf are Derek and Peter?
> 
> So... Yeah! I love you all! I hope you've enjoyed it! Kissing it all better chapters full of fluff and Steter will come soon, I pinky swear!!!


	8. Running as Wolves

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where Talia gets a little clued in, is still pretty confused, but manages to keep a clear head anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Despite the circumstances, this chapter ended up super fluffy? And I'm over here like, _how_?  
>  Anyway, completely Talia POV, because, like, she's clueless but she's kinda cool anyway? I don't know, it just felt right.  
> Okay, as always, I have no Beta (yet? I might be getting one? Which would be, so fucking cool.) any and all mistakes are mine and I apologize sincerely for them.  
> I hope you enjoy this chapter, and I hope you're having an awesome motherfucking day, muah!!!

Talia felt she was understandably confused at being called by a desperate, sick sounding Derek and told she needed to meet him at Deaton's, but he was her son, and his Pack Bond was screaming with need for her, so of course she acquiesced.

That was how she found herself with a bewildered Deaton, helping her Emissary and her son hold down her seizing _Alpha_ little brother. Peter roared, feral, hungry, insane.

"What the hell is wrong with him?!" Talia shrieked over the noise, vaulting onto the metal table to straddle him, glare at his eyes and let her wolf roar back, the Alpha in her wanting to put him in his place, to make him submit.

When the hell had he gotten this power? How hadn't she noticed? She always knew her bond with him was the most diluted out of everyone's, and that they disagreed more often than not, that he didn't always trust her and she almost never trusted him, but she was still his big sister, she had still been his Alpha.

How had this so utterly escaped her notice?

And, really, what the fuck was going on?

"K-Kate," Derek began, Talia cursed under her breath and he flinched before continuing, "they went after Kate, Uncle Peter a-and Stiles, and she got him with something- something meant for Alphas, I don't know what it was, but after, he just, he got slower, and then, then Stiles, she- to save his life, she-" he choked on his words, apparently unable to finish, but barreled on anyway- "He only got worse after that, I don't know what Kate did to him, but Mom, Gods... Is he gonna be okay?"

Talia, still holding him down as he snarled and snapped at her shared a worried look with Deaton, who only minutely shook his head before administering some salve to Peter's arm. She closed her eyes tight, swallowed, prayed.

"I don't know, honey, I don't know."

* * *

Hours later (though it felt like days) after several salves, spells, runes, remedies, and tonics had been administered, Peter finally calmed, his wounds only now beginning to knit together. Deaton had serenely (the ass) told them the worst was over, that after some rest, he should be fine, though they definitely needed to find out what weapon Kate had used, warn the other Packs about it if they could.

Talia and Derek were curled up on the floor against the wall, exhausted physically and emotionally, watching Peter, who was lying pale and perfectly still on the metal table. Deaton was in the back room somewhere, logging what he'd done, what he thought had worked.

A little while had passed, Derek dozing against her, before an inhuman sound erupted through the Preserve, it sounded demonic and terrifying and, she was sure, it was at such a monstrous pitch that normal, human senses would've never been able to register it. She wondered what it was, if she had some supernatural oddity as well as hunters in her territory.

No sooner had she heard it than Peter had jumped up, howling as if in return to the shriek. His howl was, it was beautiful, she'd never heard a 'were sound like that, never heard two supernatural sounds intertwine to become a siren song the way his howl and that scream did. All she could do was stare in awe until it was over.

"Stiles," Peter breathed, after, and then he was doing something so rare she'd always thought she'd be the only one. Deaton had told her it ran in the family and that Laura had the potential for it if she were to ever become an Alpha, but even so, she'd been the first 'were in a little over a century to accomplish the feat. She had never even considered...

But there he was, a strong, narrow faced, sandy furred wolf- another growl, and then he was tearing off. There was little she could do but settle her son as comfortably as possible, shift, and run off after him.

She had so many questions burning within her, she needed answers- needed to know how he became an Alpha, how he could shift, why he and Stiles had been so _stupid_ , where Stiles could possibly be, if she was even still alive, and how they could save her.

So many questions.

But for now, for now she allowed herself to feel the small joy of running through the woods with a fellow wolf, even if her instincts were telling her he was a threat to her territory.

She was in no way prepared for the destruction she saw, a building (and all of the trees around it for that matter) decimated and charred, as if it had been through both an earthquake and a small volcano. The smell of magic, the smell of Stiles, the smell of char and pain, it was acrid, overwhelming. Talia whined in protest, and Peter stopped.

He stood statue-still for a second, two, three, searching, and finally he spotted it, spotted her, and he let out a piercing bone-chilling howl before darting off toward her vulnerable form. Talia yipped, running after him.

Stiles was mostly out of the building, but some of its wreckage was pinning her down. She looked like hell warmed over, like torture and agony and the kind of tired you get after staying awake for days, she smelled of fever, but she was alive, conscious, despite it all, and struggling against the pieces of rubble trapping her.

Peter shifted easily into human form, sliding on his knees down toward her, grunting with effort as he ripped away the crumbled, burnt pieces of- well, it was hard to tell. Wall, maybe? Then he had her in his arms, cradling her, and Talia's breath hitched.

He was looking at her with such fierce worry and protectiveness and affection, tenderly holding her against his chest, gently hooking her hair behind her ear, wiping away tear-tracks with the pad of his thumb, caressing her cheek, nosing her temple, scenting her on a whimper.

"Stiles," he whispered, his eyes searching her face as the girl looked up at him with dazed confusion. "Stiles, sweetheart?"

"Peter," she grinned up at him, soft and childish, "I'm your sweetheart?"

He laughed with startled relief, pulled her close, buried his face into her neck and sniffled back tears, trembling against her prone form. Gods, Talia had never seen him like this, so affected by someone, moved to crying and laughter simply because they were safe, or as safe as they could be at the moment.

And Stiles? Stiles who had obviously been through some incredible ordeal? She just put her arms around him, shushed him and told him, kind, sweet, loving: "I've got you, Alpha. I'm here, I'm okay, we're alive. We made it."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys, *sniffles* you guys are so fucking awesome- I'm soul hugging all of you! All the kudos? The comments? You're all the sweetest most wonderful unicorns and I'm so fucking blessed to have you as my readers, seriously.
> 
> New chapters soon, I promise :)


	9. The Doctors are Confounded

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where injuries are dealt with, and fluff is to be had.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... As my most sincere apology for making you guys wait so long, I aim to make your teeth rot right out of all of your mouths, seriously, prepare yourselves, brush your teeth, call your dentists ;)
> 
> I have a Beta now, or I'm going to soon, but this chapter is still unbeta'd because I just. I could _not_ make you guys wait any longer. So, as always, all errors are mine and I'm saying sorry, beforehand, for the lot of them.
> 
> Enjoy!!!

Peter wakes up slowly, head foggy with pain and the after-effects of whatever Deaton used to save him. He can't say what exactly it is that woke him, a change in her heartbeat, a flutter in her breath, maybe the sounds and scents of the hospital, which are all too-loud and harsh and bitter, probably it was the fingers carding lazily through his hair. Whatever it was, he ended up blinking blearily, looking dazedly at Stiles who just smiled small, soft, and intimate at him.

He offered her what he knew was a bit of a wobbly smile in return, so fucking glad she was alive, before sitting up, schooling his expression and saying: "The doctors are confounded by you, you know."

"Oh, really?" She chuckles, scratching his scalp and tugging at his hair lightly before pointing at his hands, which are wrapped around her other wrist, with black veins running up his arms indelicately. "Shouldn't they be confounded by _you_ , and your werewolf mojo?"

He shrugs unapologetically, unwilling to let go or stop. The pain isn't as bad as it had been, that day in the park, he guesses that's because her magic is working overtime to heal her, in addition to the morphine currently in her system.

"So, what has them so _confounded_? That I don't technically exist?"

"No, you exist, Talia and Deaton have apparently been working on getting your documents and the like for a while now." Which he had been surprised to learn, though not nearly as surprised as he was to realize that Talia was going to let them _go_. It's still a bit of a shock, remembering the feel of her lips on his temple, the quiet, 'I love you, little brother,' and the promise that even though she didn't like it, she'd let them finish what Stiles had traveled back in time to do.

And then she was going to let them walk away. Just like that. Though she did expect them to keep in touch ("I won't interfere with your Pack business, but we're still family, and you're the only other full-shift 'were I know, so. You, little brother, are stuck with me.")

"Huh, I wasn't. Expecting that."

"Neither was I." He swallows, looks up at Stiles, sweeps her hair back, out of her eyes, catching a few tangles and brushing them out with deft fingers along the way, "I am so, so glad you're alive."

"Same," she grins at him, blinding, gorgeous.

"You're beautiful," he murmurs, before he can stop himself. Her smile softens, eyes going a little fond as she cups his cheeks in her hands, presses their foreheads together.

"'M sorry," she says, so quiet he might not have heard her were he human, "it would've been better to gather more of a Pack first. Make you stronger, have more back-up, I just."

"I know. It's okay."

"What did you do with the body? With- with Kate?"

"She was nothing more than char when they got to her, but, Derek, of all people, carried out those ridiculous instructions you had for her corpse."

"Of course he did, self-sacrificing idiot."

"Stiles?"

"Hmm?"

"May I kiss you?"

Because that experience was more than harrowing, it was devastating. Because he knows, he _knows_ , now, that he is in love with her. Because he doesn't want her thinking about Derek right now. Because her hands are soft against his cheekbones, his jaw, their breath mingling tantalizingly together. He only has a moment for indecision, to worry that maybe she won't-

" _Please_ ," she breathes, practically against his lips, and then he surges forward, slots them together like puzzle pieces, like their lips were made for this.

One of his hands slips into her hair, the other wrapping around her waist, careful of the bruises and burns he knows are under the hospital gown, that are healing far faster than they should. The kiss is chaste, little presses and hot breaths until she wraps her arms around his neck and he squeezes her hip a little, eliciting a gasp that he chases with his tongue, swallowing the moan that answers him hungrily.

They explore each other's mouths, greedy, uncaring of anything but the sensation of it, the warmth, the lily-honeydew taste, the spit-slick slide and press. Their distraction is probably why they barely even register a nurse barging in, because, well, Stiles' heartrate did just increase drastically.

The nurse, upon seeing them pull apart breathless and reluctant, clears her throat softly, blushes and says, having the grace to look equal parts apologetic and stern, that she needs to check a plethora of things and call the doctor now that Stiles is awake and _obviously_ coherent enough for it.

When Stiles learns that most of the hospital staff is mystified by her incredible healing she just laughs and laughs. She doesn't let go of Peter's hand the entire time, and the warmth that settles deep inside of him, the quiet, anxious terror and fury that uncurls and seems to seep away because of that simple act makes him smile in spite of himself.

When the doctor and nurses leave she leans over and kisses him again, softer, sweeter than anything. When they pull apart, lips red, wet, bruised, Peter can't help but saying: "See, sweetheart? You're a medical miracle."

"Ah. So I really _am_ your sweetheart, then?" Stiles smirks up at him, playful, wonderful, sun-soaked honey and laughter sparkling in her wide, pretty eyes.

He kisses her cheeks, her eyes, her lips, reverent, besotted with this dauntless, amazing girl.

"Yes."

She kisses him back, all the places he kissed her, echoing every movement like she honestly can't help herself, and maybe she can't.

"There's still Gerard. And Talia," she points out, because the good of the moment, the false sense of safety they have in this space that seems to contain only them and the wonder, the awe, of their survival can't overshadow what they have left to do.

"Only Gerard," he corrects "Talia is. She's letting us go. She gave us permission to finish whatever Pack business we have left, said she thinks she might even get it, although she definitely does _not_ care for our methods, she gave us permission. And freedom."

"She... She really loves you, doesn't she?"

"I think I'm starting to get that, yes."

"You didn't know before?"

"Mmm."

Stiles takes the noncommittal response for what it is and kisses him again before she grins, bright and heartbreakingly joyful.

"I've got you." She says, as if she ever didn't, as if he wasn't hers the moment those whiskey eyes first met his in defiance and rebellion and affection.

"I've got you." He answers, softly, because it's still so new, so fragile, and he's still a little worried he might be wrong about that. And, like she can read his mind, Stiles huffs a laugh at him, says, "Yes. Of _course_ , you do."

She kisses him soundly, then, smiles into it, arches her neck when he presses his fingers into her pulse-point, because even that tiniest bit of extra reassurance that she's here, _alive_ , with him, is something he needs right now.

"You've got me." He tells her, and the smile he recieves at that is worth everything, every _single_ terrible, terrifying, haunting thing.

It's a smile worth living for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, gods. And you guys, all of you, you're wonderful, I'm so grateful for every comment, for every kudos, for every hit, for any amaze-balls unicorn who actually reads this. Seriously, you guys are the best. I'm sorry the updates have been so slow, and I endeavor to do better.
> 
> Thank you for your patience and kindness and I really do hope this chapter was worth the wait :)
> 
> Tell your dentists I'm sorry!


	10. Mothers and Daughters and Families

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No apology will be great enough for stalling on this for soooooo long. All I can say for myself is that I was _super_ blocked on this story, and, even then, that's no excuse, neither are my super, super shitty time management skills, so.
> 
> I'm sorry.
> 
> I love you.
> 
> Please enjoy the chapter :)

Claudia stares at what could possibly be a life-sized doll made in her incredible likeness. Her eyes, her hair, her nose. There were other parts, though, not completely in memorial; cheeks and jaw and chin reminded her of John's mother, a long, pale neck, moles and freckles like her own grandmother, the kinky-curl of the girl's hair like her grandfather, and the svelte-lithe of her form more slight than her own, yet more comely.

Long lashes flutter shut as the girl breathes in the scent of Claudia's room, like she's delving into an old, aching memory. Her long hair is pulled back into a pony-tail, and she's wearing a hospital gown, though she doesn't look very sick at all. Her toes curl and uncurl convulsively on the cool, disinterested marble floor.

The crushed pastel of full lips that remind her so much of her own press into a thin, pained line.

"Excuse me," Claudia finds herself asking, "but are you alright? That's a, uh, _silly_ question, I know, considering where we _are_ , but are you _lost_ or something? Or- I'm sorry, do I actually _know_ you?" The girl _did_ look familiar, though Claudia was having trouble placing her, but that wasn't entirely uncommon... in her situation.

"No," the girl murmurs, warm honey eyes opening, glittering with a haunted sadness that must run so _deep_ in her, to bloom in her eyes so _vividly_. "You don't know me at all, but I'd like you to. I'd like it very much if we could be friends."

"Honey," Claudia begins, as gently as she knows how, "this is the _long-term_ ward. You shouldn't be searching for friends _here_."

The girl offers the ghost of a smile and a shrug, walking closer to sit in one of the uncomfortable plastic chairs by Claudia's bedside, fluorescent lights spilling over her cool milk skin in a sickly yellow that tries its very hardest to dim her beauty in its' starkness, and fails miserably. Even with jaded haunt coating her and something small and fragile shadowing her every movement, this girl is incandescent. And there is _something_ \- something _about_ her.

"Maybe not," the girl concedes, "but I have a feeling we'll get along _famously_."

Claudia watches her for another long moment, before sighing and deciding she would like the company, anyway, while her son is at school and her husband is at work.

"Alright, -?"

"Stiles."

Claudia blinks. "Interesting name."

Stiles smiles, more genuine and pleased, soaked with sugar. "Yes," she agrees.

"Well. I'm Claudia; it's nice to meet you, Stiles."

* * *

John walks wearily toward his wife's hospital room, trying to gauge how much time he'll be able to spend with her before he's got to pick Mieczysław up from school, then get back to work.

His kid has been determined to be as good as possible, in the face of this, and he can really only admire him for it. He's handling it much better John is, at any rate.

His pace slows when gets close enough to hear the kind of bluntly honest laughter he hasn't had the privilege of hearing in _months_. Then there's quiet tittering, like someone else is in the room _with_ her, and he wonders if it's Melissa or one of the other nurses, but when he opens the door he's surprised to see a _patient_. A girl who bears a _striking_ resemblance to his wife, such that he wonders if they're somehow related, long-lost cousins Claudia forgot to mention, or something.

"Um," he begins, and both women turn their beaming faces, wide, mischievous caramel-melt eyes on him. The effect is dizzying, if he's being honest. "Hi?"

"John!" Claudia crows excitedly, more energetic than he's seen her in a long, _long_ while. "Stiles, this is my husband, John Stilinski; John, this is Stiles, um, _Hale_ , right?"

Stiles hums, vaguely affirmative, standing and offering her hand to shake. She has a surprisingly strong grip, one he manages to smile at her for, which, astoundingly, has the immediate, visceral response of her looking _viciously_ proud of herself.

"Nice to meet you. Stiles, huh? That's..."

She laughs good-naturedly, "Oh, yes, I know. It's a nickname, actually. My real first name is _ridiculously_ hard to pronounce, and my _childhood_ nickname was more trouble than it was worth. So, I shortened my last name, and Stiles was what I ended up with."

"I- didn't my wife just say your last name was _Hale_?"

"Mmm," Stiles says, a little subdued. "About that. I may have some things to tell you, but the most _important_ thing, and _easiest_ , honestly-" she does a little flourish, and blue fire appears in her hand, the Stilinskis both gape at her.

She closes her hand into a fist and the fire snuffs out.

"So. Magic is a thing."

A young man with dirty blonde-brown hair and electric blue eyes that John vaguely recognizes as one of the Hale brood waltzes into the room, then, as if he were awaiting the moment to make a grand entrance. He plops a sweetly chaste kiss on Stiles' cheek before turning toward them both and _changing_ , his face getting animalistic, hairy, a mouth full of fangs and irises gone from sea-salt to sun-soaked rubies, fingernails exchanged for _claws_.

"And werewolves."

She clicks her fingers and what is essentially a hologram of their son shows up, a little grain-wobble dusty, but _present_ , and then Stiles flicks her wrist in a sharp, cutting motion, and he _ages_ , until he looks sixteen or so, with a buzz-cut and a red hoodie and the same haunt in his eyes that she seems to carry like a _weight_. Another click of her fingers, and their boy is a _girl_ , is _Stiles_.

"Also... time-travel."

John thunks down into a chair, eyes bulging, Claudia doesn't look much better, if anything, she's _more_ shaken. Tears welling up in her kind, earthy eyes.

"Stiles," she tells them, smiling like it aches, "is short for _Stilinski_."

And then she pulls up a chair, adjacent to John's and close to where Claudia lays, the werewolf letting his features bleed back to human as he takes a seat next to her, the hologram disappearing entirely. They explain, in turns, what's going on, _what_ Stiles is here to prevent, a little bit about modern gender politics and paradoxes, a little more about hunters and werewolves and Pack and all their dynamics and what, exactly, Peter's red eyes mean.

And _then_ \- then, they make them an offer they can't refuse.

"You know," Claudia says, looking at the bite on her arm that, with Stiles' help, is already beginning to heal, "Mischief has always wanted a sibling."

That startles a laugh out of Stiles, though both she and their new Alpha look extraordinarily pleased.

"You think he'd be down with an older sister?" Stiles asks, taking Claudia's hand when she offers it with this childish, heartbreaking joy.

"I think he'd _love_ having an older sister as much as, I expect, we will love having a daughter."

Stiles makes a little sound at that, bottom lip wobbling in a frighteningly familiar way, and Peter is by her side immediately, wrapping his arm around her shoulder and pressing a kiss into her hair.

"I'm not sure how much I love the age difference between you two, though," John decides to say, because he's her _dad_ , and, yeah, it's new and all, but _still_. Stiles chokes on a wet laugh, and Peter tries and _fails_ to hide a smile by nuzzling into the side of her throat. "I'm serious!" He cries, but Claudia's already laughing at him, and he sounds far more fond than threatening when he continues to sputter indignantly, before bursting out into laughter himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's so fluffy I'm gonna _dieeeeeeee_


	11. Fathers and Sons and Families (part II)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I will keep a schedule, I will, I swear, lol

Mischief isn't expecting mommy to come home- he's not very old, yet, but he isn't a baby, either, and his parents were as honest as they could be, even though, he could tell, they were being careful with it all. When they told him she was sick, when they told him she needed to stay in the hospital, when they told him, maybe, she wouldn't be coming home, and when she'd started to _forget_ things. They were careful, but Mischief was smart. He watched his dad age _years_ in days, his mom struggling to remember his name, and his best friend's mom looking at him with excruciating pity, and he _knew_. He knew she wouldn't be coming home, he knew this wasn't the kind of sick you got _better_ from.

It hurt, and it was scary, and heartbreaking, and _so much_ , and _unfair_. But he was going to try to be strong for her, for daddy, he was going to do his best.

Scott's own dad was gone; Mischief knew why, more than Scott did, but Mischief had a feeling Scott remembered more about it than he was letting on, had a feeling he just wanted his _dad_ again, couldn't understand how something as simple as a _drink_ could've stolen him away. Probably blames himself for it all as much as Mischief sometimes does.

And they've both seen Mischief's dad with that same kind of drink, on the bad nights, and they both worry.

It's been about thirty minutes since the bell, now, and Mischief can see Melissa pulling up to the school, a little late, flashing an exhausted smile at the both of them through her windshield, all loose curls and scrubs and overworked motherhood. Scott squeezes his hand and flashes him a smile so similar in shape that it almost hurts, and just as heavy.

Mischief smiles back, and doesn't cling like he wants to when his friend lets go to jog toward his mom's familiar car. Mischief wonders, as he watches it pull away, Melissa sparing him a mildly worried glance, if he's going to have to walk home again, or if he should just walk to the hospital and skip home entirely.

He sits lethargically on the middle-school steps, the heat of the sun a burning thing, reflected harshly by the cement and the blacktop that got newly painted this summer, so the colors are all starker, even though the thing is still as gritty, cracked. He's just planted his elbows on the stair behind him, turned his face up to the unforgiving sun, eyes closed as he indulges in the stale, brittle air, and the _silence_ that comes with being the last kid left when he hears it- not his dad's cruiser, which he might not even truly know by heart, now he thinks about it, but the _jeep_ , his _mother's_ jeep.

For one, breathless moment, he doesn't open his eyes, because there's only _one_ person who'd ever be driving that car, and there's _no way_ , it's _impossible_ \-- he swallows, dry, turns toward the sound, and stirs up the hope he affords himself, sometimes, when he's tired of just being _brave_ \- and there it is.

His mom's car. His _mom_.

Who is parking that stupid, beautiful, amazing, fucking jeep, climbing out of it all lithe grace, his dad on her heels and two others he doesn't know, doesn't care about, _can't_ care about, because that's his _mom_ , and she looks _healthy_ and proud and tall and _free_ and- yes, it does fucking bear repeating- _healthy_. He will put all the coins in the swear-jar, he'll crack open his piggy-bank, he doesn't _care_ , just, "Fuck."

"Young man," She says, a hard tone that's equal parts loving nurture and authoritative brass, her hands are on her hips, her bittersweet chocolate hair swaying all around her, and she's so _alive_ , moreso than he's seen her in _months_ , that it nearly breaks him, "don't think I didn't hear that." She points a finger at his dad, narrow-eyed, but there's a helpless smile curling her lips that she can't keep down, "What on _earth_ have you been teaching him while I was away, John? I _ought_ to-"

 _While she was away_ his ass, he thinks- and his dad's smiling, too, looking happier than he has in a _year_ , cheeks ruddy with the late summer-heat, because mom never got the air-conditioning in her car to work quite right- and this heart-soaring, heart _breaking_ joy, and he just can't take it anymore. Next thing he knows, he's got his arms wrapped around her waist, and he's nuzzling her middle as all of the grief and sadness and fear and _relief_ washes over him, wrings him out with the kind of choking, hiccupping, loud, _messy_ sobs he thought he'd managed to outgrow.

She makes a little noise, then says his name like it's the sweetest song, heartwrenching and pure, before bending down and folding over him, so her whole body envelops him, and it feels like they're hidden in the shroud of her hair, in the shadows her body casts, like _nothing_ can touch them here.

"I won't forget you again, Mischief," she swears, so fiercely and solemnly that he trusts the vow implicitly the moment he realizes what it means, even if he knows, logically, that he shouldn't. _"Never again."_

"Mommy," he weeps, and he can't even help himself, now, "I missed you so much, mom."

"I've got you, now, baby. I've got you."

She holds him through it, even though the position must not be very comfortable for her, and he plans not to allow himself the weakness for very much longer, really, he plans to let her go and wipe his face and ask how she's all of a sudden _okay_ , and if it means that _everything_ will be okay, and who are the two strangers and why does one of them _resemble_ her, but then the shadows multiply, and he feels daddy pressing in, the cavern of their two bodies providing warmth, somewhere to hide, something like _home_ , and he feels another body press against them, soft and feminine and _strong_ , another, brutal and hard and sharply protective.

It feels like _family_.

_Safety._

And for the first time in a very long time, Mischief lets himself _breathe_.

Later, he'll ask all of his rapid-fire head-spinning questions, later, he will learn about werewolves and magic and _Sparks_ , he'll learn about time-travel and paradoxes and surmise that he's got a badass big sister, an even bigger badass soon-to-be-brother-in-law (because he knows what stupid-in-love looks like, his parents taught him), and his dad will make faces, and his new big sister will laugh, and his new big brother will smirk, smug, and promise to buy him a big bucket of curly fries as a reward. Later, they'll tell him that his mom will never have to go to a hospital again, they'll tell him that his family is bigger now and they're probably going to be saving the world, just because they can, and, more importantly, because they _should_ , they'll tell him that they might have to leave Beacon Hills when all is said and done, and he'll _know_. He'll know what he has to do.

But, for now, he doesn't have to do _anything_. For now, he lets himself sink into their embrace, lets them coo soft, soothing things to him, and he lets himself be a kid, for _real_ , for just a little while longer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is this flangst? Or, like, fluff with a lightly angsty appetizer? lol, I don't know
> 
> Also, can you guess what little Mischief is going to do? ;P
> 
> Families part III, coming up next thursday! *Pops confetti* Whoop, whoop!


	12. Brothers and Sisters and Families (part III)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What am I even doing? lol
> 
> I hope you enjoy this chapter!!!

"Rafa," Melissa grits, and it's so _hard_ to keep her voice level. "Rafa, it's _your_ week, where _are_ you?"

"I'm- look, Mel, why are you even hounding me like this? It's not like you _want_ me to see him _anyway_."

"Jesus _Christ_ , Rafa. Of course I wouldn't, because you- you _hurt_ him. But I fought for shared custody under the condition you went to those mandatory fucking AA Meetings _anyway_ because no matter how much you- you _infuriate_ me, you're still his _father_ and he still _loves_ you, and I want him to be able to have the _option_ of having a relationship with you, if that's what he _wants_ , because _him_ , his _feelings_ , they're goddamn _important_."

"Melissa, you've gotta understand, I've got _work_ ; it's _grisly_ stuff, I can't just-"

"Oh my God, I can't even believe I was ever in love with a narcissistic _prick_ like you. You don't even _care_ , do you?"

"That's not _true_ , Mel, but- I'm still not _well_ , okay? I'm barely hangin' on to the wagon as is, alright, and I'm not sure that-" "-don't you even," she seethes, because she's _positive_ she knows how that sentence is going to end. "Don't you even _dare_."

"Mel," he sighs, as if _he's_ the one being put into such a _hard_ goddamned position, and how could she be _so inconsiderate?_

"You want to know what the worst part about this is? It's that yesterday- yesterday you _called_ him, and you _told_ him you were going to _be_ here."

"I just wanted-"

"Shut the fuck up, Rafa, just- ugh. Shut the fuck up."

Hanging up on him isn't nearly as cathartic as she wants it to be, and, of course, when she leaves the kitchen, she finds her son sitting, chin resting on his palms, elbows on his knees, at nearly the bottom of the stairs, his packed bags below him. She sighs, leaning her side against the wall, trying a tired, empathetic smile, even though she knows it must be the very definition of _brittle_ , "You heard all of that, didn't you?"

It's not really a question; she already knows the answer.

"He's not coming, is he?" Her little boy sounds far more resigned and world-weary than he has any right to be.

"No, honey, I'm sorry."

He shakes his head, spares her a brief twitch of his lips that's too heartbroken and wretched to even be considered a smile. "It's not your fault, mommy."

No, it isn't, but guilt churns in the depths of her gut _anyway_ , because this is her _baby boy_ , hurting, and she can do absolutely _nothing_ about it. She takes a deep breath and opens her mouth for a big, motherly, wise, grand- she's probably overselling herself, here- speech when the doorbell rings, and she tries not to feel any spark of hope that it _could_ be Rafael, _maybe_ , tries not to watch that hope burn blinding in her son's eyes for one, minuscule second, before the doorbell rings again, and again, and again, in the impatient repetitive way that means _Mischief_ — meaning _most_ hopes are dashed, but Scott's already smiling as he bounds down the last of the stairs to answer it, and Melissa feels a helpless wave of relief crashing over her because Scott and Mischief, they're _brothers_ , they can't ever get through _anything_ without each other. They understand each other on a base level no one else does, and if there's anyone in the world who could keep Scott's dad being a selfish asshole from bringing him down, then it's _Mischief_.

"Melissa!" Claudia crows as soon as the door opens, and rushes to her to envelop her in a bone-crushing hug.

"I, oh-" Melissa is... dumbfounded? Claudia, she feels _solid_ , healthy and real and _fine_ in a way that she shouldn't be, in a way that she _isn't_ , and, besides John and Mischief, there are two others slinking in after her, one who looks incredibly, impossibly, _like_ her, and another with sandy brown hair and crystal-glass eyes. "What's- how-?"

"Hush, hush," Claudia coos, petting her hair, all hyperactivity and bubbly delight, like _always_ , like _before_ the illness, and for a moment her heart clenches painfully in her chest because this is _her_ best friend, _her_ sister, and. Christ, it's been _so_ long. "We'll explain everything over dinner."

"I..." She looks over at Scott, Mischief already chatting with him animatedly, and the girl, long, glossy brown hair in loose pig-tails, wearing a flowy, faerie type dress, white and flowery, crouching in front of them both, her caramel eyes as gentle as the breeze. Scott looks a little dazed, and vaguely awe-struck, she can relate.

"Okay?" She manages, eventually, helplessly, and Claudia _beams_ at her.

* * *

_"Werewolves?"_ Melissa asks, incredulous, her table set with an incredible amount of food, Claudia and John sitting on either side of her, Mischief beside John, Stiles, across from him, beside Claudia, Peter next to her and Scott across from _him_. Her table has never been so... full. _"Magic?"_ She waves her hands around, trying to physically produce her disbelief, _"time-travel?!"_

Stiles smiles at her, produces a flame in the palm of her hand, and Peter, smirking, flashes his eyes a deadly, powerful, bloody _red_.

"Holy shit," she breathes, and the two younger boys begin giggling at her, Scott taking this _magnificently_ well.

And. She's _seen_ things, okay? In the hospital, on full-moon nights, _crazy_ things, but. Jesus.

Still, Claudia's eyes flash, too, a brilliant Gold, like the threads of Fate, like _health_ , and Stiles tells her about things she can _do_ , to help Scott with his asthma, even _without_ the Bite, for all that they'd be willing to offer it, when he's old enough- she doesn't quite know how she feels about that- and Peter tells her about how they're going to have to leave Beacon Hills, probably, after all is said and done, after they, for all intents and purposes, _save the future_ , and Mischief, wide, whiskey-eyes bright and just this side of desperate, hopeful, talks about _family_.

Because _Stiles_ is his family, now, a whole big sister, out of nowhere, and _Peter_ , and his _Mom_ is back, but Melissa is like a mom to him, _too_ , and _Scott_ is his _brother_ , and- and _more_ than that. This is _Pack_ , and he babbles, hyper and on a roll, frenetic in his urgency to convince her, and, Scott, he looks just as yearning, just as goddamned hopeful, so.

So she says, "Okay," and Mischief cuts himself off mid-sentence, the bright, terrified, heart-breaking joy that lights up the two little boys faces is enough to make her own heart burst, enough to make her _know_ that this is the right choice. "Okay, how do we become- I mean, you said _humans_ can be Pack, too, so how do we-?"

"It's simple," Stiles says, smiling, the haunt that wraps itself around her only serving to contrast her happiness in a stark way that makes it seem all the more _important_ , like each smile is rare and ought to be _cherished_. "Do you accept Peter as your Alpha?"

Melissa looks from Stiles, to Mischief, to her son, to _Claudia_ , who nods, slightly, her eyes aglow. Then she looks to Peter, a man she doesn't quite know, someone she can sense has the capacity for cruelty, but, perhaps, not against them. Maybe _never_ against them. For some reason she gets the feeling that he would raze the world, nevermind beat the hell out of Rafa, if it meant protecting her, protecting her son, protecting his _Pack_. He's their Alpha, already, she thinks, and finds herself smiling for it.

"Yes."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A _huge_ thank you to everyone commenting and kudos'ing and reading and mfhlmf
> 
> I love you guys!!
> 
> PS; I promise to reply to all of your comments eventually, my time management skills _suck_ , lol, and I always end up writing or doing work or procrastinating and I am a horrible author for this, I know, but know that I do read every comment and I love each and every one, even if I may not reply for a month or so, lol ♥♥♥


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